


Silent night, silent cry for help.

by justAleks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 10:59:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19130659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justAleks/pseuds/justAleks
Summary: Late night call from House prompts Wilson to go and check on his friend. A lot of unsaid pleas to soothe the hurts are a lullaby he knows too well by now.





	Silent night, silent cry for help.

        The shrill ringing of his phone wakes up James and immediately makes him wish the worst to whoever is calling. Few seconds of laying in bed and coming back from dreamland, where everything is simple, cozy and silent accompanied by never-ending scream of the phone does nothing to the animosity he starts to ooze like an extremely angry and extremely poisonous frog.

The ringing stops, but before James can take a full breath it starts screeching again.

_House._

It must be House, the sheer stubbornness and ungodly hour are a dead giveaway. Wilson looks at the table clock. It’s nearing 4 A.M. A fleeting thought of unplugging his phone crosses his mind. Thankfully for his friend, it’s almost immediately chased away by ever-present worry. Worry that the day he chooses to ignore House, will become the last day of House’s existence.

With a long-suffering groan, he heaves himself from the bed, mournfully looking at the nest of blankets that sings to him to come back and reaches for the phone.

‘Took you long enough.’ House dry voice filters through the receiver. ‘Be a mother-hen and come. Bring something to drink.’ Wilson has zero chance of responding, ranting, disagreeing or complaining as House ends the call. James squints at the handset beeping at him, like its trying to hurry him up.

_Move, move, move. Be a good mother-hen, be a good boy. Move!_

Wilson sights again, rubs his eyes and shakes head. Something in House’s voice, a strain, clipped tone. It makes him worry, fuels him to actually move, make himself less rumpled than he is. His moves are mechanical, the oncologist barely registers moving through the house, collecting some clothes to change, some necessary toiletry. People are already commenting on their relationship. Wilson doesn’t feel like listening to even more enlighten comments if he were to come to work smelling like House. James has to go back and fetch two beers from his fridge, already preparing to face House grumpiness.

The ride to his friend gives him time to collect himself. Bring his usual sunny disposition to the surface.

The windows are dark, aside from a tv glow visible from the living room. Wilson feels his heart sink. The doors are open and James invites himself without knocking, he finds House slumped on the couch staring blankly at some mindless soap opera. Hand rubbing his thigh, jaw set. House slowly looks up at him, eyes tired, full of pain. Face pale, illuminated only by the TV. He looks horrible.

This is House, who is tired of the pain, tired of cane, of being a cripple. Tired of loneliness and maybe even tired of himself. This is House even Wilson rarely sees. And every time he sees him like that, Wilson feels something die inside him.

‘Mommy’s home.’ House rasps, and James wants to cry. He smiles instead, a crooked smile, trying to find any last bits of snarkiness he has.

‘Shush, my child. I think it’s after your bedtime, young man.’ He breaks the eye contact and goes light the lamp tucked into the corner, nearly tripping on stray books littering the floor. House snorts from behind.

‘Couldn’t sleep, missed your lullaby and there’s no-one to tuck me to bed, kiss me goodnight and check under it for monsters.’ James goes to House’s vinyl collection.

‘So, any wishes? What do you want to hear my darling?’ He asks, fingering the envelopes. They all have fuzzy, well-worn corners. House hums thinking. His fingers stop at one especially worn cardboard. House follows his every move with heavy-lidded eyes.

‘Great choice, you sure know your child well by now’ he rumbles. Wilson takes it out, old, old copy of The Who ‘Who Are You’ in his hands.

‘You have some guts to call me at such ungodly hour just because you are too lazy to get your ass from the couch and put the vinyl on’ James starts ranting. There’s no fire behind his words, he just wants to fill the silence with something more human than the artificial dialogues from the drama House doesn’t even watch. The amused snort gives him more confidence. This is good, James can talk as much as he has to. There’s nothing more he can do to chase away House’s demons.

He keeps a steady flow of chatter, talking about anything that will come to his mind, The Who playing in the background as House turned the TV off. He talks about House being an ass, about recent gossips floating through the hospital, about the book somebody recommended. Anything and everything, as he putters along Greg’s house, cleaning it a bit, making it easier to navigate without scoring a quick rendezvous with the floor.

He goes to the kitchen, makes few sandwiches, turns a kettle on to make some tea.

‘C’ mon, be a man, ditch the tea and bring the booze’ House bemoans from the couch. Wilson digs out the sugar and dumps two tablespoons along with a tea bag into a mug. He prepares himself a small cup of instant coffee. He pads to the bathroom, to root out a new bottle of Vicodin.

‘Food first, booze later you uncultured swine.’ He replies just in time with the kettle turning off, both the mug and a cup are filled with boiling water. House grumbles some more but doesn’t put any more fight as Wilson sets the food down in front of him. The Who finish their last song from side A and the room is filled with a soft grating of the vinyl. Wilson goes and changes the sides.

They sit in silence for a moment, House munching on his food, Wilson warming his hands on the cup of coffee. He closes his eyes for a second, body relaxing into the couch. There’s not much sleep any of them can catch, with just a few hours separating them from having to go to work. He gives House his painkillers when the food is gone. Greg makes a small, happy sound in the back of his throat. The moment the pills touch his tongue, House relaxes. Wilson worries that, despite the pain, Greg couldn't bring himself to move.

House knee bumps into his as the older man mimics his pose, mug clasped in his hands. The worry ebbs away, hides in the corners of James’ mind. Greg’s demons also lie low, for now, chased away by his voice, by his presence.

‘Thanks Jimmy’ House murmurs into the mug, Wilson bumps his own knee into House’s.

‘You’re paying for my coffee you ass’ he says. House chuckles.

The world behind the windows is becoming greyer with every second, sun rising without any care for their problems.

Another night, another day.

The room is once again filled with the soft hum of empty grooves in the vinyl. This time they both allow the silence to fall, no demos hiding in it, successfully chased away for now.

Eyelids heavy, they both stare at the window, content to sit there.

**Author's Note:**

> It's a part of my resolution to write as much as I can, possibly everyday. So it's jus a quick, tiny fic to make my writer juice flowing.


End file.
